Now and For Always
by Taliatoennien
Summary: Past flashbacks: Much's life before and throughout the Robin Hood series.  Story present: two years after the series finale.  King Richard is finally back in England, and Prince John is out of power.


SUMMARY: Past flashbacks: Much's life before and throughout the _Robin Hood_ series. Story present: two years after the series finale. King Richard is finally back in England, Prince John is out of power, and all the members of the team who remain are able to go back to their lives. Building a new world is not quite as simple as it seems. Division between past and present marked with "X X X".

SPOILERS AND PAIRINGS: Spoilers through the entire _Robin Hood_ series. Much/Eve; Little John/Alice; Will/Djaq.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Robin Hood_, and I am not making any money from this story. I'm borrowing these lovely people for my own fangirl amusement.

RATING: Older kids. That has become a kind of all-encompassing label in fandom, so let me clarify. _Robin Hood_ itself is a kid-friendly show. Although a lot of awful things happen (torture, rape, war), they happen offscreen in such a way that is vague enough that those who didn't already know / didn't want to know, couldn't guess. Besides creating a family reputation, this was also a very good stylistic choice for RH. Thus I liked the choice and will mostly follow suit. However, I'm the Angst Princess. When I see opportunities to amp up the angst by telling you _exactly_ what happened rather than leaving it vague, I'm going to take them. Thus this story is darker than _Robin Hood_ the series. No sex except "fade to black" variety. There will be "fade to black" variety!

OTHER WARNINGS:

First: Most of the _Robin Hood_ characters are – at least ostensibly – Catholic. So am I. This will impact the things that happen and the way that I tell the story.

Second: If you're a die-hard Guy fan who can't bear to read a story without some appearance of our favorite tortured redeemable sometimes-bad-guy in black leather, you might want to find something else to read. I like Guy. I have nothing against him. However, this is _Much's_ story. Guy doesn't have a huge part to play. He's only in the flashbacks, and barely in those.

DEDICATION: I know this is overdone, but … well, it seems appropriate right now. To Jesus my Lord and Savior, who has been my best friend these past few months in a way I could not have understood or imagined before. To LadyKate63 and Insomniac Bard, who have refused to give up on me, either as a fangirl or as a writer. To Venusa and Balloonhat, for all the 5 AM hours of fangirling Guy of Gisborn, for accidentally letting me realize that Much was an aspie just like me and thus an ideal viewpoint character. And to thirty years on this gorgeous planet!

_Without further ado…_

Now and For Always

By Alicia

Chapter 1: Heroes

_Sing me a story of heroes of the Shire_

_Muddling through, brave and true…_

Being a servant in a camp of nobles in the Holy Land wasn't so different from being a servant in the Nottingham kitchen.

"Much! Where is the toast?"

"On the table, next to the roast pork," Much yelled, earning appreciative laughter from around the fire. They had neither pork, nor bread for toast, nor table. "Would my master prefer white wine or red to complete his course?"

"Fine white wine, and we will drink to his Majesty," Robin said without any hint of mockery in his voice. Robin raised his flagon of warm water, and the others followed suit – including Much, who had three-quarters of a canteen of clean water in his possession, then he would need a suitable stream. "To King Richard," Robin called in a bright, clear voice.

All around Much, soldiers echoed, "To King Richard."

"To King Richard," Much said, draining half his water. He had been walking for most of the day with nothing to drink; he would drink what he had that night and let tomorrow take care of itself.

"Much, where are the clean dishes?" the lord to Much's right said.

"Next to the stack of packages and candy from your mum," Much said, waving his cooking stick, which doubled as a plate.

Byron of Clun actually had several letters from his mum. He was the youngest in the camp, younger even than Much. He had two older brothers waiting back at his home, and a bride to be who doted on Byron as if he was the heir rather than the disposable third son. He and Much got along. "My mum says that everyone else needs to bathe," Byron said.

"We are in the seat of nobles. We have all the sand in the world to bathe in," said Much.

Everyone within earshot laughed.

"To glory," said Parson of York. "To glory," the camp echoed raucously.

Robin joined this toast with a more subdued air, as if he was not quite sure what his place in the glorious end pursued by King Richard would be. Much did not join, as he was almost through what little water he had left. He was very conscious that the sun would soon be down, and the camp needed to be guarded, fortified, and cleaned before that happened. Nobles seemed to think that "cleaning" constituted picking their dirty socks from the ground and shoving them in the tops of their packs next to their bunkmates' noses.

"Incoming" shouted William of Nettlestone, who had been standing guard. That was the only warning.

Much had never used a sword on a human being before. In point of fact, he had not known how to use a sword at all until a few fortnights earlier on the boat when Robin had taught him at last. He had not much idea how to use his shield. Hiding under it did not seem like a bad idea.

The water skins were kicked out of the way on either side – such a waste – and Much was quickly, quietly surrounded by Saracen bodies, in black robes holding deadly silent daggers.

Byron of Clun whipped around from his position by the fire to a stance at Much's back with sword and shield at the ready. Much tried to imitate him.

"No different than fencing with my brother," Byron said, taking down one robed Saracen – Much's attacker surged to take his place, doubling Much's resolve to fight and not run, "when my mum…"

Those were his last words – Much only caught a glimpse of Byron's surprised face above a dagger thrown with deadly accuracy into Byron's heart. "Your mum," Much said inanely, whipping his shield around and knocking a second dagger out of the air. He lunged forward and killed the Saracen soldier, then looked around for Robin.

Robin had stepped a few paces outside of the chaos of the battle, and was calmly taking down Saracen after Saracen with his bow. The encroaching army – at least, it sure looked like an army and not a mere raiding party – seemed limitless, but the ranks fell with Robin's shots. They seemed to notice that, and were now streaming toward Robin directly rather than attacking the camp indiscriminately. Three of the English soldiers were down. Liam, also of Nettlestone, looked as if he'd merely sprained both ankles – he was still shooting from his prone position, as a matter of fact, although Much had not the heart to tell him his arrows were going wide of the Saracens – but the other two were dead.

"Much, look out" Robin called, and Much swung hard to his left, then to his right, then back to his left. A dagger grazed his left shoulder. He screamed, but kept on running. Only one thing mattered now: to reach Robin's side before the stream of dark, hooded soldiers cut Robin down.

Much barely made it to Robin's side in time. There were just so many – so many hooded figures, so many cold knives which left flashes of hot pain in their wakes, so much blood. He fervently prayed the knives weren't poisoned. Throwing out everything Robin had ever taught him about using his shield and just waving it about wildly, he still managed to hit three knives and one arm out of Robin's way – and then Much tackled his master, moving his exposed neck out of the path of an oncoming dagger.

"Thanks," Robin said breathlessly, shooting the Saracen soldier in the throat without missing a beat, then pulling Much back and continuing to shoot, now with Robin protecting his back.

A few moments longer, and the rest of the Saracens went down.

"We …" Robin said.

"We survived our first battle with the infidel!" Much yelled loudly, then realized he was alone.

"_We_ survived," Robin said painfully.

They were the only people alive in the dark desert night, and there had never been a sunset stained with as much red.

"Are you warm enough, Master?" The question sounded inane, but the desert night was as cold as the day had been hot, and Much felt he'd been immersed in ice water himself. As he'd felt every night since leaving the boat, but tonight was different.

Robin did not answer. His chipped bow and few salvageable arrows lay several paces to their right. Too far to grab in case of another attack, but Much did not intend to point that out. He had gathered and cleaned the few intact arrows when it had become clear that Robin was not going to move from the spot where he had stood watching the last Saracen fall. Robin now lay in his bedroll facing the blank night sky. No stars that night.

"Should we head for the boat?"

"No. We go on. Just as we planned. To King Richard."

"To King Richard," Much said softly. "Master? What will we tell him?"

"Would you shut up, Much?"

Much turned away, staring into the blankness of the desert horizon until his eyes hurt. It was just darkness. Not knives and blood. He had to stay awake until Robin awoke. That would not be difficult. He never wanted to sleep again. And Robin had just told him to shut up. It was dark. There were tears stinging his eyes. That was _right_; Byron and the others deserved no less.

"Much?" Robin said softly.

"Yes, Master?"

"I am glad it wasn't you." Robin finished in an odd sort of choke, and then spoke no more for the rest of the night.

X X X

Bonchurch Lodge, such as it was. Much couldn't repress a smile. Even with the verging-on-horrific events of the past few weeks, there was something to be said for coming home. And there would be a fireplace to cook the squirrels he had caught on the road, and dishes from which to eat them, and an actual bed to sleep in. More than that, there was no pressing Great Duty to pull Much away from the creature comforts of home, no one to rescue in the middle of the night, no need to be Robin Hood any longer. King Richard was on the throne, and Much could concentrate on his own life.

It did seem odd, and lonely. It wasn't right that Much should be going to Bonchurch alone. Robin should be escorting him in, leaving him at the door with that characteristic smile which always made Much promise more undignified concessions than he ever would to anyone else. It was not right that Robin was not there. But even that could not taint Much's joy in coming home.

There was a thick layer of dust over everything, which Much had expected. There were war damages that Much had not expected. This place had not simply lain empty since he had pushed the valuables into Eve's hands and returned to the forest. Idly, Much wandered over to the destroyed main fireplace and ran his hands over the broken ledge. A war axe had done this. There had probably been a person underneath the axe, _there_. He squeezed his eyes shut against the images, but of course that did not stop them.

He would not be cooking squirrels, or anything else, in the main fireplace tonight. He could go back out into the woods and build a campfire – but it was still early, and rather than leaving the lodge just yet, Much explored. The upstairs bedrooms. The bath house. The servants' quarters. Some held old damages; some much more recent. Thankfully all those who had died here had been buried elsewhere; God had granted Much at least that much kindness.

He heard noises from the very smallest room in the servants' quarters. Silently, he slipped behind the door, drawing the sword he always carried now in one fluid motion. Those were war reflexes, Much was conscious enough to recognize, as he slipped his sword back into the holster. Through all these years in the forest, he had developed a different set of reflexes, a set that aided him in recognizing and protecting peasants in trouble. The reflexes warred all the time. Much was more or less used to it, but his behavior had been yet another reason for his old teammates to laugh at him.

But there was no one to laugh at him now. Much sheathed his sword, then cautiously pushed the door open.

Eve was there, in the corner, huddled next to the operational fireplace, which had recent ashes but no fire. She was holding something.

"Eve?"

She met his eyes, suspicion changing to wonder. "Much? I thought you were dead."

He covered the length of the room in a few strides. "That was what you were supposed to think," he said. "But no, I'm not dead. I'm here. I was coming home, I didn't expect you to still be here."

"I haven't been here all this time," Eve said.

"I should hope not," Much said. He sat on the fireplace ledge a hair's breadth away, barely within polite distance. He wanted to take her in his arms. He poked at the ashes. "Are you cold? Should I get some more firewood?"

"The firewood is all gone," Eve said heavily.

"There is a whole forest out there," Much said, springing to his feet again. "Don't go anywhere," he added over his shoulder. It sounded inane even to his own ears, but he was afraid that he would return and the woman who had sometimes haunted his dreams, who he had never expected to see again in waking life, would have vanished. He ran into the forest and busied himself chopping dead branches with his sword, which, he told himself, was a plowshare now and would never be needed to kill human beings again. The work gave him time for one more stray thought: why on earth did Eve, one of the most capable woman Much had ever met, need him to do something so simple as gather firewood from the forest?

Two candlemarks later, Much returned to the servants' quarters loaded down with dry branches. He built the fire to such a level that the tiny fireplace built for the servants could hardly contain it, and then he sat down again as close as he could bear.

Eve turned her face toward Much, and she was heartbreakingly beautiful in the firelight. Older and more worn, with permanent red marks around her eyes, but still with the most gentle, deep, tender eyes ever created. "Thank you."

"You are welcome. Eve, what are you doing here?"

"Running away," Eve said heavily. "For a couple of years now. When I first left you here at Bonchurch, I fled into the forest, and from there I intended to go far away, maybe even outside of England until things got better. But," she sighed, "they never got better, and there was a whole family about to be carried off by the Sheriff's men to maintain the King's house far away."

"You rescued them?"

"That was the idea," Eve said, "But I ended up taking their place. Vaisey … he's evil, Much. He saw me guarding the exit as a twelve year old girl slipped away into the woods. And he said that I would take her place in the bed of his chief of arms."

"Eve." Much did not know what to say, and he knew that in a second he would start babbling. He didn't want to babble at her. He didn't want to turn away in an awkward silence and let someone else take his place at Eve's side. He wanted to take her in his arms and make it all go away, he wanted to kill the chief of arms, he wanted to turn back the clock and take Eve away from Bonchurch with him, back into the forest where Robin would have kept her safe. "Um, did they at least give you something to eat?"

Eve laughed softly. "More than that, dear Much. More than you'd ever know. I finally escaped half a year ago. I've been holed up here, and no one has come for at least the past several moons.

"No. King Richard is back. You didn't hear the announcement?"

"I was … busy," Eve said, looking down at her arms.

Much followed her gaze. "A … baby?" he said incredulously.

Eve nodded. "She was born only a few days ago. She's not … yours."

Much carefully moved his hands to the cloth in Eve's arms, then when Eve did not flinch away, pulled it softly away to reveal the most perfect beautiful little girl Much had ever seen. "Of course she is," he said softly. "If you … want her to be, that is."

"Of course I do," Eve said, laying her head on Much's shoulder. "Her name is Tabitha. Do you want to hold her?"

X X X

"Is it true?" Djaq said. "There would have been peace without this … Gisborne?"

Robin nodded, keeping his eyes anywhere but at his men.

"And yet you gave him up for me?"

Robin hung his head.

Much simply watched. It was times like these when he hated his own indecision. He wanted to go to Robin, but he did not know what to say. He wanted to smack Robin for calling him simple, but he did not want to cause more pain. Robin needed to be forgiven. And Much needed … he wasn't sure. If he could just get Little John and the others to stop looking at him, he would be all right. He wanted to leave, but he didn't want Robin to feel unforgiven. And he was not blind to the impact of the events that had already happened. If it hadn't been for Gisborne, he and Robin would have returned before Robin would have ever been hurt. The nightmares they had already seen in England would never have taken place. There would be no other chances to prove this. Robin thought Much was simple and did not understand, but Much understood. He just hated seeing the man Robin had become, and the fact that Robin was pulling farther and farther away from him made him both worried and scared.

And in the end, he did nothing. He just stayed, fighting the impulse to run, and hoping that would be enough.

Later, when the sun had finally gone down and the camp was quiet, Much deliberately edged his bedroll farther away from the others. Even in battle, even when one could mention one's mum as the arrows cut one down, among soldiers, one did not cry. But Much would have gone insane if he had not, and since he did not particularly welcome inviting even more ridicule from the mostly-noble fellow soldiers, he was careful only to cry in the middle of the night away from anyone currently standing guard. He hadn't thought he would have needed that trick ever again, but apparently…

Much wasn't alone. Robin was sitting behind him, saying something – Robin had spoken so softly that Much hadn't been aware of the sound. Much held his breath. Robin froze. Knowing better than to make any obvious signs of feigned sleep, Much instead breathed slowly and deeply, and eventually Robin resumed speaking.

"Much. I can't bear to say this to your face in the daylight. I screwed up, my friend, and I cannot let any of my men see that. Including," he said with a soft sigh, "you. You are a stronger man than I, and I dare not let any of those who only need to see 'Robin Hood' see the man who needs to apologize to his friend."

Much held his breath again, Robin trailed off, and with all the self-discipline he'd developed as a soldier, Much went back to breathing as if he was asleep.

"You are not at all simple. You were right. You were right, and I didn't see it. I always knew that you understood how important justice was for Gisborn, my friend. But I needed it more than you did. I need to see him … pay," Robin said, as if he had decided against a harsher word, "and you held me back. Thank you. Maybe one day they'll let me say this to you in the daylight." Robin brushed one gentle hand across Much's cheek, and then softly padded away.

Damn it all, Much had to say something. But when he opened his eyes, Robin was already gone.

X X X

Of all the first mornings in Bonchurch, Much had never expected to wake cold and hungry, with his arms wrapped around the woman he already thought of as his wife and the baby he already thought of as his daughter. Well, the cold and hungry part, maybe. Time to trap some more squirrels, and perhaps someone in the village might recognize Much well enough to give him bread and cheese. He would have to leave Eve long enough, though.

"Good morning, my Lord," Eve said, drawing Much into a long kiss.

"Um," Much said, when they finally broke apart. "Good morning." He disentangled himself and built the fire back up. "How is Tabatha?"

"I think she's going to be okay," Eve said. "She scared me at first, she was _so_ little and didn't seem to want to eat, but she's nursing all right now." Eve gave one of those rare wry smiles that broke her controlled façade. "I've never had a baby before. I really have no idea how to check."

"We should take her back to Nottingham, to the doctors there," Much said. "I'm sure there would be a midwife somewhere close." A memory flashed through his mind, the Sheriff, his use for midwives, and he waited until it passed.

"We should," Eve said, but she made no move to get up.

"How are _you_?" Much said. Finished building the fire, he came back next to Eve, wanting to protect her from he did not know what. She looked ill, still.

"I'm fine," Eve said.

Much stayed where he was, meeting her eyes and trying to figure out what else she needed him to say.

Her face crumbled, slowly, one beat and one muscle at a time. "It's been horrible," she admitted, carefully setting the baby in the bedroll and half-sitting up to wrap her arms around Much's waist.

Much held her, rubbing her back and cradling her hair. "It's okay," he said, too softly really for her to hear, but he'd never done this before anyway. "It's okay. It's over now."

"It is," Eve finally said, wiping her eyes. "It's over. And we have each other." She kissed Much again, and this time it became even deeper and more drawn-out.

"Stop," Much said softly, unwilling to let go of her. "What are you doing?"

"After all those guards," Eve said with a choke, "I want to be with someone I really love."

"Love," Much said softly, and for an entire long minute he didn't know what to say. He held her up instead, strong arms wrapped around her back, not letting her pull any farther away. "But Eve, I want to marry you first."

"Surely you've … you were a soldier …"

Much blushed. Dammit, he could feel it all the way through his skin.

Eve grinned, that old mischievous Eve grin, even though there were new tears in her eyes. "Well, then, you have to ask me, stupid."

Much laughed, and there were tears in his own eyes. "Eve, will you marry me?"

"Yes."


End file.
